The Fifth Season

Holding a garage sale can improve your sex life.

Let me explain.

Who in their right mind would choose to go hang out in a garage for hours and hours? Well, other than a guy. Rephrase that. What woman in her right mind, etc. One needs a little incentive, a motivational boost. Enter, Pinot Grigio* (should this be capitalized? in my book it's proper usage). Add a little satellite lite classical and a hint of pine (see post of 9/24), there goes the evening. The luggage gets stacked, the punch cups priced, the Mickey Mouse golf clubs shined up, the bead curtains untangled. By the time I waft back toward the house, the sky is shot with stars and I'm feeling spunky. And on a school night.

Three days and counting.

Actually, I'm feeling a little better about the Bizarre Bazaar, not to mention the ozone layer. I heard on NPR Science Friday that "they" are predicting the hole in the ozone will close up by 2050. Oh yeah, I'm also addicted to NPR News and Information, which I listen to on my headphone radio while running, allowing me to satisfy two addictions simultaneously. Anyway, getting the word on the ozone layer produced an odd sensation in the small of my back, a sort of prickly tickle which I took to be running-related, until it occurred to me later that what I'd experienced was a spasm of OPTIMISM. Short-lived, but OPTIMISM nonetheless.

The last time I felt a vestige of what could be vaguely construed as OPTIMISM was four years ago, when the DNR cancelled doe season due to the brutality of the previous winter. This was the winter of the most recent Storm of the Century (not to be confused with the 1992 Storm of the Century), when I stepped out onto the back deck one midnight and heard what I thought were gunshots going off all through the neighborhood. Believe me, this is not that kind of hood. Next morning, I realized what I'd heard was the sound of trees breaking under the weight of six-inches-of-slush-turned-ice; now they littered the landscape like giant Pickup Sticks.

Welcome to Up North. Notwithstanding a recurring Storm of the Century every few years, we have the usual five seasons: Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall, Garage Sale.

My husband, a.k.a. partner/soulmate/love of my life, laments that Garage Sale Season, like OPTIMISM, is short-lived.


(*Is there anyone else out there who occasionally lapses on this and asks MyNameIsBriannaI'llBeYourWaiterThisEvening for a glass of Topo Gigio?)